The Memoir of a Forgotten Portrait
by The Lady Arturia
Summary: A story as seen from the eyes of a forgotten portrait, isolated from the rest of the world, of her encounters with various Hogwarts students over the centuries till the day she is found and restored to her original location. A mini-series featuring several renown witches and wizards from the Potterverse appearing on Chocolate Frog Cards, as well as prominent characters from canon.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** **Anything recognisable belongs to our Queen, JKR. Everything else is mine. The dates of when Merlin lived and when the painting of Ginevra de' Benci was painted have been changed according to 1. what JKR said, and 2. to fit the timeline of the story. The original painting is believed to have been painted by Leonardo da Vinci in c. 1474, but here I have it as c. 900s.**

 **Also, I have zero knowledge about French and whatever I have used in this chapter is what I've got from Google Translate. I've added the English of what the French is supposed to mean beside it, but please don't shoot me if it's gibberish.**

* * *

 **The Memoir of a Forgotten Portrait**

* * *

 _ **Circa 1001**_

She paused in the pruning of her juniper tree when she heard the familiar rustle of cloth against wood. Tilting her head to the side, she listened carefully but heard nothing; perhaps she had imagined it.

Most often than not, it was the wind that deceived her with its antics as it passed through the barely visible gap in-between the bookshelf and the alcove, filling her with futile hope. She had been removed from her original position at the very centre of the Hospital Wing and had been stowed away with the promise of being placed in a better location. It had been nearly a century since then, and she had finally come to terms with the fact that she was no more than a long-forgotten portrait who would spend eternity staring at the back of the wooden bookshelf that hid her away from the rest of the world.

Just as she let go of the branch whose leaves she had been rearranging—a healthy pastime she had developed a few decades ago—she heard the telltale sound of a young child's voice, followed by more rustling. Now curious, she glanced over her shoulder to see a young boy, perhaps a first or second year student, wriggle in through the small gap in the far left corner and tumble into the hidden alcove. The dark-haired boy tripped and sprawled across the floor, upsetting the century-old dust that had settled over the cobblestones. The untouched alcove shimmered as the cloud of dust caught the rays of the afternoon sun that streamed in through the lone window beside her—a sight she had not witnessed in a very long time.

The boy now groaned and coughed as he straightened up, and she quickly hid behind her tree. She was suddenly intimidated by the prospect of being in the presence of a human being when she had not seen one in so many years.

She could hear him move about in the small space, perhaps examining the variety of scattered articles the alcove had accumulated over the years. Children of various ages seemed to think that pushing things through the gap in-between the bookshelf and the alcove's edge was the simplest way to hide or rid themselves of some object, and it was a matter of constant annoyance for her. She had taken it upon herself to yell furiously every time someone did that, which was perhaps the reason behind them not returning to collect their belongings. And so, the items lay in a haphazard heap before her, unwanted and forgotten, a constant reminder of her own plight.

"What is this place?"

She held her breath as she heard him meddle with something, only to toss it away after a moment, the dull _clunk_ of the discarded object making her flinch. He coughed, perhaps due to the dust he had upset, and she waited with bated breath as she tried to discern what he was doing from the vague scraping sounds she could hear. Unable to quell her curiosity any longer, she peeked out from behind her tree and peered down at the messy-haired child as he settled down beneath her, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs.

He sat staring at the gap for a long time, as though expecting somebody to enter through it at any moment. Every time the muffled sounds of footsteps and voices was heard from the other side of the bookshelf, he would stiffen momentarily, and she thought she could almost hear his heart _thump-thump-thump_ ing away. She continued to watch him, wondering what he would do next, enjoying the long-awaited interval in the otherwise monotonous days she spent doing nothing of import.

After a time, he grumbled and pushed himself up, pulling a slim wand out from under his robes as he stood with his feet apart. He then proceeded to point the wand at an object in the far corner of the alcove and made a familiar swish and flick motion with his arm as he said, " _Wingardium LeviHosa."_

The little broken toy did not move in the slightest.

He tried again. " _Wingardium LeviHosa!"_

Again, nothing.

" _Wingardium LeviHosa!_ Move! _"_

Biting her tongue to keep from laughing out loud, she inched further out from behind her tree as the boy frowned and walked over to the toy. He nudged it with his foot and it fell over, making an odd, fluttering sound that seemed to further frustrate him.

"I _hate_ this!" he yelled, and then slapped his hands to his mouth. He glanced towards the gap, and they both waited with bated breath as the seconds ticked by. When nothing changed, he dropped his hands and sighed in relief, and she had to control her urge to chastise him.

 _Foolish little boy,_ she thought. _You are mispronouncing it._

Of course he could not hear her unspoken words, so he spun on his heel, pointed his wand at a different object, cleared his throat, drew in a deep breath, and then proceeded to go through the motions of the Levitation Charm once again while saying, _"Wingardium LeviHosa!"_

When nothing happened, he made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and stomped his foot. She slapped her forehead before she could stop herself and the sound seemed to echo through the small space. Inhaling sharply as she realised her mistake, she eyed the child with trepidation. He whipped around and fixed wide, piercing blue eyes on her as she stood frozen in shock, half hidden behind her tree.

The boy reacted in a rather exaggerated fashion: he reared back, as though someone had pushed him, stepped on the hem of his over-sized robes, and fell hard on his bottom. That did not stop him from staring at her slack-jawed, as though he had never laid eyes on a portrait before. She had the sudden urge to reprimand him and demand that he erase that ridiculous expression from his face, but before she could speak, he spluttered in a very unrefined manner and got to his feet.

"You—You have not been here this whole time, have you?" he asked stupidly. If there were some place else she could go, she would not be stuck in this predicament, now, would she?

She straightened up as she stepped out from behind her tree and sniffed, holding her chin high and clasping her hands together before her. "Of course I have." His eyes widened further, making them bulge out of his little head, and she could not resist saying, "And of course I had the unfortunate opportunity to witness your unsuccessful attempts at casting a simple Levitation Charm."

His cheeks coloured, and she thought he would retort in embarrassment, or even anger, but he only sighed and let his shoulder droop. Head hanging, he said, "And that is but the truth. I cannot even perform the simplest of spells. I do not need an old portrait to remind me of my lack of talent."

She clucked her tongue, unamused. "Is that not precisely why you must practice with more vigour and conviction?"

"I am!" he retorted. "But I simply cannot seem to get it right! Everybody _else_ in my class has already mastered it, so I do not understand why it is only I who is incapable of performing it!"

She continued to watch him as he scowled up at her, cerulean eyes shimmering with anger. "Perhaps it has more to do with the fact that you are missaying the incantation than because you lack effort."

The boy frowned. "No, I am not. My classmate, Burbary, advised me on how to say it."

She huffed, placing a palm against her cheek as she looked away. "Then I am quite sure this _Burbary_ is barely qualified to give advice of any sort, let alone on how to say an incantation."

He extended his lower lip out, sulking childishly, and she found his lack of spirit irksome. Deciding that she had had enough of watching him brood and wallow in self-pity, she returned to her tree and continued to prune it. After a time, he started to practice again, repeatedly mispronouncing the spell, and fed up with his inability to realise the cause for his incompetence, she snapped over her shoulder, "It is pronounced _LeviOsa,_ not _LeviHosa_."

She heard him pause, perhaps to stare at her with the same dumbfounded, wide-eyed expression from earlier, before saying, " _Wingardium LeviOsa!"_

When she heard the telltale sound of the object rising up from the ground with a clatter, followed by the child's triumphant exclamations, she hid her smile as she plucked a stray leaf and discarded it to the side.

"Thank you!" he said after his moment of exhilaration, and she waved her hand over her shoulder without turning to look at him.

There was a faint rustle and grating sound as he began to inch back out through the gap, and just when she began to feel saddened at the loss of her momentary source of entertainment, she heard him clatter about. Glancing over her shoulder just as his dishevelled hair poked out from the gap, shining blue eyes directed her way, she raised her eyebrows questioningly. "What is it now? Have you forgotten it already?"

He shook his head and said, "My name is Merlin, fair lady. If I may be so bold, may I ask for your own?"

The corner of her lip twitched in amusement and she said, "I am Lady Ginevra de' Benci of Florentia."

"It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Lady de' Benci," he replied and ducked back into the gap, leaving her humming a little tune as she turned back to her tree.

(It was several decades later when she happened to hear a group of students talking about a great wizard named Merlin, who had been conferred with the epithet "Prince of Enchanters" by the legendary King Arthur himself for his expert ability in charm-casting.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1215**_

She looked up when she heard the familiar, merry voice of a certain raven-haired thirteen-year-old girl whom she simply could not get rid of.

"I have come again, Lady Ginevra," the girl announced in a jovial voice as she sidled in through the gap. "And I have more news on the wrongdoings of a certain Professor Armswidth, who continues to force his presumptuous opinions onto me—"

"Must you continue to interrupt my solitude with your presence so often?" she quipped as she placed her book facedown beside her on the soft grass. Although she expressed her constant dissatisfaction over the bright-eyed girl's frequent visits to the alcove, she rather enjoyed the company of the cheerful Hufflepuff lass—even if her prolonged bellyaching about her Arithmancy professor could get rather tiresome.

"I have none but you to share my woes with," the girl said as she struck an exaggerated pose before settling down on the pile of books she used as a makeshift stool. "As I was saying before my lady so rudely interrupted me," she continued, "Professor Armswidth has threatened me to a month of counting figures in the dungeons if I do not prepare an acceptable essay twenty-feet in length on the magical properties of the numbers one through five by Monday, and not a day more, as punishment for my horrid score on the previous test," she said all in one breath. "By Monday, my lady! Barely a day after our promised trip to Hogsmeade!"

She hummed as she picked up her book and held it with one hand. "Perhaps it is a fit punishment for you who refuses to take her studies seriously."

" _But,_ " the girl whined in a very un-lady-like fashion. "Arithmancy is just such a terrible _bore_ of a subject!"

"Why in heaven's name did you opt to pursue it if you are so vehement in your protestations?"

"I have elaborated on my reasons time and again, my lady." She leaned forwards to position her elbow on her knee and balanced her chin on her hand. "Father refuses to accept that he will never in a thousand years have a son to carry on the legacy of his ancestors, and so he has chosen to constrain _me_ , his only daughter, down the path of lunacy."

"Your father is a noble man who knows what is right for his child. A good daughter would do as her father pleases, not revolt and bombard me with pithy complaints on trifling matters. "

"You continue to support that stubborn fool of a father even after months of having to bear with my _pithy complaints?_ " she huffed. "He is but an overbearing old wizard whose doddering words are acknowledged by few in passing—"

Ginevra shut her book with a snap, causing the girl to look up at her. "Bridget!" she admonished. "I have instructed you time and again—I refuse to entertain you speaking of your father in such ill-mannered ways unbefitting of a young witch as yourself."

Bridget only rolled her eyes, further adding to Ginevra's annoyance. "Yes, yes, my sincerest apologies, Lady Ginevra. As a Wenlock, I should know better."

Ginevra sniffed. "As a thirteen-year-old girl born into an honourable family, you most definitely should."

"But I cannot help these loathsome feelings I harbour towards Arithmancy! Father's continued attempts to coerce me into continuing his unsuccessful experiments in numerology and further his legacy have all but driven me to insanity!"

"All good things have a bitter taste at first," Ginevra said with finality.

"Fustilugs."

" _Bridget!"_

"Being confined to this dusty old hovel has wrought your temperamental nature, perhaps, my lady?" Bridget asked, sitting back and swinging her legs back and forth in an indecorous manner. "Or might I be so bold as to suggest that you have always been this way?"

Ginevra opened her book and placed a finger to the line she had been reading, making her unwillingness to entertain that particular conversation conspicuous. Bridget barely seemed to be bothered by the cold treatment—as always—and continued to chatter on about how she had always wanted to train magical creatures and travel the world on their backs.

"Such drivel," Ginevra murmured, to which Bridget made a simpering sound.

"But of course _you_ would never know what it is like to be mandated into doing something you do not want to."

She bit back a sigh as she focused on containing her temper. Bridget had a way with her words, and she refused to let a girl who had barely reached womanhood antagonise her into a futile argument. After all, if anyone knew what it was to be forced to conduct oneself in a viable manner through inescapable situations, it would be her.

"Your twenty-foot long essay will not write itself, I daresay," she finally said. "Nay do you choose to spend every evening till Christmas investigating the magical properties of numbers?"

The girl seemed displeased, but rose to her feet. "You are so quick to send me off every time, my lady," she said as she dusted her skirt. "Almost as though you abhor my company."

"Off with you!" Ginevra replied, waving a hand. "And do not show your face to me till such time that you have been deemed worthy of free time by your professor!"

"I shall return on Monday to narrate the tale of my adventures in Hogsmeade, as well as my plight after being compelled to an entire night's worth of numerology," Bridget called as she slipped out of the gap, leaving Ginevra to feel a hint of melancholy as she returned to her book. She could not help but smile wryly as she pictured the girl bent over a long scroll of parchment, scribbling away while she muttered about how much she loathed Arithmancy.

Although she would never admit it to Bridget, Ginevra really and truly did enjoy the evenings where she had to listen to the raven-haired girl's trifling tales of woe. The child's vibrant, buoyant personality served to shatter the perpetual state of monotony Ginevra lived in and gave her something to think of when she began to brood over her forgotten existence. She refused to think of the never-ending days of unchangingness once Bridget left Hogwarts—or even worse, forgot about her.

Pushing away such saddening thoughts, she turned back to her book and reread the same line that she had read countless times since she was first painted, the thought of Bridget returning with tales of her adventures acting as a beacon of hope in the vast ocean of loneliness that was the small alcove behind a bookshelf.

(It was only several decades later when someone stowed a book on Arithmancy and Numerology in the alcove that she found out that Bridget Wenlock, as contrary to her expressions of dissatisfaction as a young girl, had gone on to become a renown Arithmancer who discovered the magical properties of the number seven.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1314**_

She sighed as she heard another group of hysterical girls rush past the hidden alcove, talking in high-pitched voices akin to screeching Veela, unable to contain their excitement even to the extent of maintaining a semblance of proper conduct. This was the state Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had been reduced to every octennial since the founding of the Triwizard tournament over two decades prior.

Although it was a quadrennial event, Hogwarts hosted it at alternating times, and thus was the reason for her constant irritation ever since the arrival of the students from the prestigious Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute at the beginning of the sixth Triwizard Tournament. The constant chatter of excited children muffled by the great barrier that was the bookshelf blocking her alcove away from the rest of the school was a continuous reminder of the fact that she could never witness the grand proceedings of the tournament for as long as she was hidden away.

Her idle mind could only imagine so much; without ever actually witnessing the grand event, even she had limits to what she could concoct in her head. The tournament was already nearing its end; the third and final task was soon to be revealed, if the excited shouts from the other side was any indication, and she greatly awaited the days of monotony to stretch out before her once again. If there was one thing she hated more than having nothing to look forward to, it was being unable to be a part of anything, whether or not she was eager for it.

She had just settled back on the grass and returned to carving a pawn for the chess-set she was making by hand, from wood taken from her very own Juniper tree, another healthy pastime she had developed lately, when she heard the almost forgotten rustle of cloth against wood, signalling that yet another unwelcome child had managed to find her hidden abode. Pursing her lips, she remained still as a statue, watching with bated breath as a petite blonde of about seventeen years of age stumbled into the alcove, an expression of absolute misery etched into her pretty features.

" _Pauvre de moi!"_ the girl gasped as she fell to the floor, a sob escaping her lips as she covered her face with her hands. "Woe is me! What am I to do? _Que dois-je faire?"_

Surprised by her fluent French, Ginevra reasoned that she must be a student of Beauxbatons. From her miserable state, and the tight-fitting two-piece suit she had on, perhaps she was the Champion of her school. Ginevra sighed despite herself; was this the universe's way of taunting her? As if she was not suffering enough in her solitude, the one person to stumble into her safe haven had to be a Champion from the French school of magic.

Hearing someone beside herself sigh in misery, the girl looked up, her cheeks colouring when she spotted Ginevra. The latter flipped her hair over her shoulder and held her chin high; she was not about to beaten by a French belle whose wide, tear-filled eyes and pitiful expression was even moving her own stone-cold heart.

" _Qui êtes-vous?"_ the girl questioned. "Who are you?"

Ginevra answered back in fluent French, " _Je suis_ Ginevra de Benci. _Et vous?_ And you are? _"_

" _Je suis_ Eudeline Babineaux, _Madame._ _Je suis une Championne au Tournoi des Trois Sorciers_. I am a Champion in the Triwizard Tournament."

Ginevra pressed her lips together and frowned in an attempt to convey her displeasure towards the current situation. Whether the girl understood or not was of little import, as she seemed desperate enough to go so far as to ask a portrait for help.

" _Voulez-vous m'aider?"_ she pleaded, eyes shining with unshed tears. She clasped her hands together as though in prayer, and Ginevra sighed yet again. She did not fancy helping this girl, but she was not so stone-hearted a person as to ignore a child's tears.

 _But what help can an old portrait give this child?_ she thought as she nodded curtly. The girl, Eudeline, brightened up instantly and drew closer.

" _Quels conseils pourrait vous donner un vieux portrait?"_ Ginevra questioned.

"Help zat none else are allowed to give," the girl replied in broken English.

"If you can speak my tongue then kindly do so from the very beginning, instead of putting me through the trouble of recollecting what little French I know," Ginevra quipped.

" _Je suis désolé,"_ Eudeline apologised. "I am sorry. _Nous—_ we cannot ask for another's help for zis task and so I am not knowing how I must go about it."

"You have come to the right person, I daresay," Ginevra said, narrowing her eyes. "My forgotten existence may be of use to you yet without you having to break any rules."

" _Merci,"_ Eudeline said with a nod. "If I may ask—I must find ze book. You can help me?"

"What book would you be looking for?"

"Ze, erm, it is very rare and old, I am told. Hidden somewhere none else can find."

"And this book is the treasure you seek to fulfill this task?"

The girl shook her head. " _Non, non._ Ze task we do not yet know. We will be told only when we find zis book. Others have found it, but I have not." She bowed her head and sniffed, and Ginevra sighed.

"I haven't the slightest idea as to what book you search for," she admitted as she played with a stray curl of her chestnut-coloured hair, "but I _do_ know of a certain hidden bookcase at the very top of Ravenclaw Tower that might hold the answer to what you seek. It is believed to have belonged to the Lady Ravenclaw herself, and while I cannot confirm its existence or its location, that is the last place I know of it having existed. Perhaps it will do you good to befriend a Ravenclaw and ask him or her to lead you the bookshelf."

"You speak the truth?" Eudeline exclaimed, rising to her feet. The hope that glittered in her eyes was obvious enough, as was the grateful smile she offered Ginevra before bowing low. " _Merci beaucoup."_

"I say, do not take my word for it," Ginevra insisted, holding a hand up. "For one such as me, who has been imprisoned in this alcove for well over two centuries, any information I give may not be throughly reliable."

"No matter," Eudeline replied with a curtsy. "Your help, I am truly grateful for. _Je suis heureuse de faire votre connaissance, Madame_ de' Benci _._ I am glad for having made your acquaintance. _"_

" _Tout le plaisir est pour moi,"_ Ginevra replied. "I am glad to have been of assistance."

"Then, _excusez-moi."_ The girl bowed again and rushed out of the alcove, leaving Ginevra to examine the piece she was carving, a small smile tugging at her lips when she heard the muffled shout of jubilation from the other side of the bookshelf.

"All good things come to those who wait," she murmured to the empty alcove as she tilted the pawn and scrutinised the bottom.

(It was several weeks later that Eudeline Babineaux returned to the alcove to announce that she had won the tournament, becoming the first ever Beauxbaton Champion to have won it since its establishment twenty years ago. When asked what she could do in return for Ginevra's help, the latter demanded that the girl tell her everything of the tournament and the goings on on the other side of the bookshelf.)

 _~*To Be Continued*~_

* * *

 **A/n: This was written for Diagon Alley II's Halloween Event: The Walls Have Eyes, where the story has to be written from the perspective of a Hogwarts portrait.**

 **I found the idea interesting and wanted to experiment with a concept I've had for a long time but never really got a chance to write. This was originally meant to be a one-shot, but after doing a whole bunch of research I ended up with about 15 characters (not including the portrait), so this is going to be a mini-series with five chapters having three characters in each chapter. Each of the characters is a (in)famous personality from the Potterverse [except for Eudeline Bebineaux, whom I created because I wanted to write about the Triwizard Tournament before its abolishment] and how an encounter with this portrait may or may not have directly or indirectly had some impact on their lives.**

 **Some of the characters I've experimented with include Merlin, Bridget Wenlock, Bowman Wright, Almerick Sawbridge and a bunch of known characters from canon (read on to find out who), so I'm excited to experiment with their characterisations.**

 **Also, since the timeline begins in the middle-ages and goes all the way up till the next gen era, I've stuck to a more formal structure of English because it was literally impossible to write in Old English. Just FYI: the language** _ **will**_ **change as the centuries go by, at least in the way the characters speak, if not in the description, since the portrait remains the same throughout. (Also I'm not very good at writing in formal English, so any helpful comments are more than welcome.)**

 **Just a few things I thought were necessary to detail in this author's notes. Since this is the first time I've tried something like this, any constructive criticism would be very helpful.**

 **Do leave a review telling me what you think (and follow this if you're curious, because there's four more chapters to come!)**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Lots of love~**

 **Arty xx**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n: Finally finished the second chapter, wohoo!**

 **This one was written for two competitions hosted on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum:**

 **1\. The Biathlon Competition for the 15km mass start, and**

 **2\. the Embrace Your Majors Competition for List 2: Humanities Based Majors' Classes**

 **(Prompts are at the bottom.)**

* * *

 _ **Circa 1508**_

Of all the human vices one could succumb to, the greatest of hers seemed to be her weakness towards prolonged isolation. Thus, her long years all alone beneath her Juniper tree, trapped in the cage that was the garden of her painting, had led to many a thought to pass through her mind.

Although she knew not what the subject of her painting was like, she enjoyed entertaining the possibility that they were somewhat alike in the core nature of their existence. She liked to think that their personalities might have been somewhat similar, or that they shared similar tastes or interests.

In her decades of idleness, she had even gone so far as to imagine what the everyday life of her subject was like, in the peak period of her life. Was she truly the adorned beauty that gentlemen flaunted whilst in the company of fellow gentry? Had she many a love affair with young, handsome men, leaving behind a sparkling shoe and a broken heart as she rode away in a carriage through the night after her escapades? But perhaps she was a queen, having been courted by none other than the king of the land himself, so entranced by her charms that he would beget her with many a beautiful child for her to dote and mother as she see fit.

But of course she imagined the original Lady Ginevra de' Benci of Florentia to be an exquisite beauty of both mind and character; an intellectual being well respected and received by many and scorned by few. Left to her own devices, she could craft an entire book on the many shenanigans of Lady de' Benci, but all of her self-created fantasies were naught but delusions fabricated by an idle mind wallowing in her extended periods of loneliness.

She sometimes even dared to reminisce over long-forgotten conversations back when she was still a well-remembered portrait hung in the Hospital Wing. When many a young maiden would come to sit under her Juniper tree to recount woeful tales of some trivial matter, and she would listen to them with a patient smile and a kind hand on the knee, offering condolences when needed and useful advice when asked. Those were the days she truly missed—the days when her existence _meant_ something. When she was not a forgotten portrait.

Shaking her head, she drew herself out of the familiar void of darkness tugging at her; there were days when she gave in to the loneliness, but today was not one. Today, she would fight the beckoning darkness and remain in the dull light that spilled through the neighbouring window, the shapes and patterns the sun played across the back of the bookshelf her only source of change in her otherwise monotonous existence in the hidden alcove.

 _I am weak. I feel how life and my courage are slowly flowing out of my body. I am loosing myself_.

Just as she focused on plucking the lone, overgrown blade of grass by her feet—why was it that plants in paintings went through the cycle of growth but the people remained eternally the same?—when she heard the familiar rustle and groan of someone having discovered her hidden abode.

She involuntarily brightened at the thought of a visitor to distract herself from her morose feelings of self-pity. But, to her surprise, what entered was not a child, but a small, round, tittering ball of fluff. It floated in, seeming listless, and it took her several moments to realise that the reason for it being afloat was its rapidly rotating wings, so fast, that the naked eye could barely catch its movement. But she had mastered the skill of identifying the smallest of details in what seemed like the most boring, simplistic things, another healthy pastime she had developed over the decades to keep her from slipping into madness.

"Spittle!" came the muffled voice of a young lad, and she could hear him struggle as he tried to squeeze in through the small gap. She reckoned that he was an older or larger boy from that and the lowness of his voice. "Spittle, come back!"

The strange bird only tilted its tiny head as it turned to stare at her. She had the urge to reach out and pet it before she was reminded of her inability to do so. After what seemed like a prolonged endeavour, the lad finally managed to squeeze through, confirming her suspicions: he did, indeed, look to be about sixteen years of age, and he was well built, with wide shoulders and firm arms.

 _Perhaps one that comes from a life of physical labour,_ she thought, her interest piqued. She was yet to meet one such student, and was more than excited to glean as much information of the outside world as possible from this seemingly ignorant boy.

"Spittle, be a good girl and come to me," he was saying as he continued in his attempts to convince his pet to obey him, but to no avail.

"A fitting name for a creature as strange as this, although I daresay she does not appreciate it very much," she said before she could stop herself.

As always was the reaction of her rare visitors, the boy whipped around to stare at her wide-eyed, and she took the opportunity to scrutinise him some more. He had skin the colour of caramel and wild, windswept hair that seemed rough to the touch; he was rather good-looking, for a boy his age, with no blemishes on his face and a sharp, chiselled jaw to add to his well-defined features.

"My apologies," he said with a slight bow. "Forgive me, my lady, for I did not notice you in my haste."

She smiled, nodding appreciatively at his well-mannered speech. "Fear not, child. I do not blame you, for you stumbled into my abode whilst in search of your pet. But, do enlighten me on the manner of creature that it is? I am rather ignorant when it comes to creatures from beyond the realm of this alcove."

"Spittle, you mean? She is called a Snidget, my lady. A rather common wild bird found in the western forests."

"It is rather odd that it would be here, then, do you not think?"

The lad seemed troubled as he bowed his head, his mouth down-turning in a brooding frown. "The truth, if I may burden my lady with it, is that I kidnapped this young 'un from the Quidditch storehouses on the grounds." He clenched his fists angrily. "Those merciless goons have begun to use Snidgets in their games as the grand prize that awards the Seeker victory if he manages to catch it. Although they are small and fast by nature, Snidgets are vulnerable, and their wings often get crushed during the games, leading to their deaths."

She raised her eyebrows, unamused by this casual display of cruelty. What was the world coming to, while she remained stowed away? "And you deem yourself a worthy Knight who shall rescue these poor creatures from their unfortunate deaths? Have you the means or the power to do so?"

"Someday!" he exclaimed, and the little bird tittered by his ear, "Someday, I swear that I will find a way to stop this madness! Powerless creatures do not have to pay the price for man's entertainment. It is our duty as the superior species to make sure of that. That is what I believe."

She smiled at his steadfastness. Even if it seemed rather idealistic and unrealistic for their day and age, his colourful dreams were rather suited to a youth of his age. "The path you walk on is a difficult one, but may you see success, child. All I can give you are my prayers of luck so you may prevail."

He bowed, a smile finally gracing his handsome features. "I am grateful for your kindness, my lady. If I may request the name of your personage, I shall be truly humbled."

"This Lady Ginevra de' Benci is impressed by your resolve, young knight. May you find glory at the end of the road. But, I must ask you for your own name, so I may remember you by when the time comes, and recount this meeting as a fated encounter."

"By all means, it would be my honour, my lady. I am known as Bowman Wright, a descendant of the great Godric Gyffindor by heart and soul, and I shall honour your words by keeping alight my blazing spirit till such time I succeed."

The bird, perhaps moved by her master's resolution, came to perch atop his shoulder, and he stroked her feathery back affectionately.

"I shall take my leave here, my lady, but fear not, for I shall persevere in my goal to rescue the powerless innocents that suffer great injustice in this world."

"Blessed be," she responded, bowing her head in the slightest, and watched with amusement as he struggled to exit the gap, the Snidget chirruping in encouragement above him.

She did not know if it was his timely arrival or his revolutionary declaration that spurred the dimly burning fire within her, but when she thought back to the days when she would listen to the troubles of many a young one in similar fashion, she could only feel nostalgia instead of the usual resentment and self-pity. Perhaps, perhaps, she was yet to fall prey to the cruel games of the universe. Perhaps, she, too, had the will to let blaze the fire of her own making.

(It was several years later that news of a new invention, the Golden Snitch, became the talk of the school. She could barely contain her smug satisfaction when all any passer-by could boast about was how their supposedly dear friend, Bowman Wright, had invented the Snitch as a replacement to the hundreds of Snidgets that were murdered in cold-blood during Quidditch games all year 'round, and how the Irish National Quidditch Team fully supported their teammate's creation, allowing him to revolutionise the Quidditch world.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1614**_

She had expected it. She had expected it, and yet, now that the bitter truth of her unremembered existence was further enunciated by the arrival of her successor, the beautiful, talented, remarkably lovely Mona Lisa, she could not quell the anger that burned within her. If she could use magic, not only this dreaded alcove, but the entire castle would be rendered a flaming mess of warped beams and shattered rubble.

Was her existence of no import whatsoever in this wretched world? Would she forever remain a forgotten portrait whose continued survival was nothing more than a trifling matter that nobody, not even her own self, could be bothered by? How many times had she tried to call out to passers-by in an attempt for someone to acknowledge her existence but failed? Had she not her pride from years prior, she would have long succumbed to the loneliness and isolation that shrouded the alcove in the form of delicate cobwebs and blankets of dust.

It was an insult not only to her, but the great Maestro Leonardo da Vinci himself, who had poured sweat and blood into painting the masterpiece that she was. As though acknowledging the anger she felt for the injustice wrought upon her, the thunder bellowed outside, the heavy droplets of rain and the whistling wind rattling the beams above the lone window beside her, forcing itself into the small alcove and drenching the growing pile of discarded rubbish in its icy, uncaring fury.

Her heart was like the raging storm: cold, uncontained, and wanting to wreak havoc onto the world.

As though in answer to her need to take her anger out on someone, a young child stumbled into the alcove, arms wrapped around his skinny form, hair clinging to his pointed face. He was white as a sheet, the only colour on him came from the maroon and gold scarf wrapped around his throat, dark eyes wide and frightened, and she could not for the life of her understand why a child so afraid of the storm would leave the warm confines of Gryffindor Tower to wander about in the desolate Rear Hall. Even during the day it was so quiet and eerie, albeit for the infrequent group who rushed by with the intention of reaching their classes as quickly as possible, or the stray student that enjoyed the solitude it offered. She could only assume that he had ended up there by some ill fate.

There was a loud clap of thunder from outside, and a streak of lightning brightened his pallid features for a moment as he crumpled to the floor, hands clutching his head as he trembled in terror. Another time, she may have felt sympathy for this child, but now, her stone-cold fury knew no kindness. She watched him writhe in a heap on the floor, his soft whimpers falling on uncaring ears as she simply leaned back against her tree and listened to the crashing sound of the rain.

A frightened and whimpering child held nothing against the yawning emptiness expanding within her. He had chosen the worst of times to discover her hidden alcove, and she was not the least bit amused by his pathetic state. And so, the two remained as they were: she, stewing in her anger while listening to the waning storm, and he, in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room.

Dawn came before either realised it, and it was only when they cracked their eyes open as the morning rays of the sun poured in through the window that each realised they had fallen asleep. They boy looked up, finally having seen her, and somehow his reaction was much milder than she was used to. Having seen his pitiful form the previous night, she would have anticipated an alarmed exclamation, some scrambling about, and perhaps he would have even run out, leaving her to continue as though he had never been there.

But he simply stared at her wide-eyed before mumbling a quiet, "I apologise for having imposed on you last night. Thank you for your kindness."

She wanted to shout at him and tell him that he had mistaken her lack of concern for kindness, but, like the rain, her anger seemed to have seeped deep into the ground beneath her, leaving her feeling oddly empty and hollow.

"Do not think you can just waltz in here as you please and get away with an undignified apology and a half-hearted show of gratitude," she finally said, but even her voice did not hold the sharp edge she would have expected to hear.

"My apologies," he said, bowing his head. "I shall take my leave." He rose to his feet slowly, as though his limbs had frozen together overnight. But perhaps they had; although she could not feel the heat or the cold, she was certain the alcove was not the most comfortable place to fall asleep in.

"Do not let me catch you out of bed and stumbling in here on a stormy night once again," she said bitterly as she watched him dust his rather thin night robe. "Behaving in such a cowardly manner, your family should be disgraced."

"I am grateful for your concern," he responded with a small smile, his eyes heavily lidded, as though he was still half asleep. Perhaps he was.

He shuffled out, barely seeming like he was able to stand upright, and she wondered if the boy may have been sleepwalking. _What a strange child,_ she thought to herself, feeling rather conflicted that she may have judged his personality wrongly due to the withdrawn state he had been in the previous night. Sleepwalking, in her day, was believed to be the act of a mischievous fairy, trapping simplistic souls in the land of their dreams for entertainment, so perhaps there was more to the boy than what she had witnessed.

Curiosity overpowering her need for vengeance, she now wanted the boy to return so that she could gauge his character better, and as though hearing her wishes, he reappeared a few weeks later, bright-eyed, with a large welt on his chin.

"I am hiding from my nemesis," he announced with a grin. "I despise him, so I conked him atop the head with my goblet. Gave him a nasty bruise, too."

She blinked at the triumphant expression on her face, completely put off by the change in his personality, as though he was not the same whimpering child from before, and when he proceeded to re-enact the fight, she burst out laughing, feeling her empty, withering soul slowly but surely piece itself back together.

Somehow, it seemed as though the rain had washed away both his and her misery, leaving room for their hearts to blossom and shine warmly like the spring day outside.

"My name is Almerick Sawbridge," he informed her after he had finished narrating his tale. "And I tend to sleepwalk on stormy nights. I don't know why I do it, but Mother told me it has something to do with when I was a child."

"What an odd little boy you are," she mused out loud, and then continued to ask him more about the world on the outside.

"Such a strange place for a portrait," the boy said as he sneezed from the accumulated dust. "Do you like it in here?"

She pursed her lips, unwilling to touch on that subject and said, "I have no choice but to do so."

"Why not?" asked he.

"This is the place I have been given, and it is the place I shall remain till such time that I am removed from this alcove."

Almerick pursed his lips, seemingly unable to understand her complicated reasoning. "But if you hate it so, have you tried asking someone to move you out?"

"Do you think I have not tried?" she snapped, irked by his bright-eyed curiosity and need to pry into her lonely life. "The fopdoodle who put me here used a Permanent Sticking Charm and then went and forgot all about me."

"But surely there is some way to—"

"That is enough out of you," she interrupted, cutting him off. "Do you not have more productive things to do than bother me and get yourself into fights?"

The boy seemed dismayed by her cold treatment, but he was intelligent enough to know not to pursue the subject any further. "If I leave now," said he, "Walden is sure to find me and give me a sound thrashing."

"Perhaps you deserve it," she said unsympathetically.

"Perhaps I do," the boy agreed. "But that does not mean I have to stand back and take the beating."

She pressed her lips together in a thin line, finding his line of reasoning incomprehensible. "Well, off with you! I do not want your friend finding this place and the two of you rolling around here and upsetting the dust."

"Oh, he will not ever find this place," Almerick assured her as he got to his feet. "I shall make sure of that."

She watched him walk towards the gap, but before he left, she said, "Tell me, lad, have you perchance come across a portrait by the name of Mona Lisa?"

The boy looked over his shoulder, a thoughtful expression adorning his slight features. "Do you refer to the one in the Hospital Wing?"

Feeling a knot form in her stomach at the reference to her former home, she said, "The very same."

He made a face. "I do, and I do not particularly like her. She's rather haughty and boastful. The last time I was sent there to heal a nasty bruise, she went on and on about how she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world—even though she is naught but a silly portrait."

The corners of her lips twitched into a smile at that. "Perhaps you should stay for a bit longer and tell me more. Who knows, Walden may be outside, waiting for you."

At that, the boy grinned and sat himself down on the ground before her, beginning the tale of how he had earned the bruise that had sent him to the Hospital Wing.

(He continued to visit her often till the day he left Hogwarts, both while asleep and while awake, always having a new tale of another fight or argument he had gotten into, but it was not very many years later when she heard rumours of a certain Almerick Sawbridge having defeated the largest known river troll, which had threatened people crossing the River Wye for the longest time.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1720**_

Of all the strange children that had stumbled upon her alcove in all the years she had been there, the one seated cross-legged before her, tinkering some sort of peculiar device that looked like a flowerpot, was by far the most mysterious one of them all.

He had arrived through the gap a little after the Christmas feast, pulled out a magically compressed box from the pocket of his robes, expanded it, and had immediately begun fiddling with odd little pieces of junk that he pulled out of the box. He had been so engrossed in whatever it was that he was doing that he had not even noticed her existence till such time that her curiosity had worn off and she had cleared her throat to make her presence known.

His reaction had been much the same as his predecessor: just wide-eyed surprise and a startled grunt before he had asked, "Have you been here all this while?"

But even after that, he had barely paid her any heed, the warped pieces of metal, little springs and other rubbish being the focus of his attention. After that, he had left the box in the alcove and returned everyday for the rest of Christmas vacation, casting a rather skilful barrier charm every time to keep away unwanted visitors from hearing the curious sounds originating from behind a bookshelf.

Sometimes, though, he would spare her some of his attention to explain what exactly he was doing. Not that she necessarily understood the perplexing 'inventions' of his, but she still preferred it over the lonesome days of having nothing to do and no one to talk with.

On one dreary evening, he had announced that he was called Edgar Stroulger, a seventh year student from Ravenclaw House, and he was in the process of making a breakthrough in some 'experiment' or the other, hence she must refrain from speaking to him as it would distract him and shatter his concentration.

She had simply rolled her eyes at that and turned back to flattening a piece of bark from her Juniper tree—she had begun the process of making paper as she had decided that writing a book would be a good use of the abundant amount of time she had on her hands—and had left him to his own devices.

But, after several weeks of prolonged silence from her side and obvious disinterest from him towards anything other than the ridiculous garbage he claimed would revolutionise the wizarding world, she was at the end of her patience. Deciding that she would play a little trick on him—it was rather mean, even by her standards, but she told herself that he deserved it for constantly ignoring an incredibly interesting portrait such as her—she put aside the thick sheets she had weaved and rose to her feet as quietly as possible.

Holding her skirts above her ankles so they would not rustle against the grass, she tiptoed as close to the barrier that separated her from the real world as she could. She then cupped her hands around her lips, leaned forwards, and shrieked loudly, startling Edgar so much that he dropped the little diamond-shaped device in his hand with an exclamation of surprise.

She had expected him to turn towards her angrily and yell insults at her so that they could engage in a silly argument, but the blond boy only eyed his broken creation with an aghast expression on his face. He reached forwards and gingerly picked it up, looking at it from every angle to see if it was damaged beyond repair. She waited patiently with her arms crossed, ready to scream again if she had to, but the rust-coloured object began to whirr in his hands and emit sparks.

He dropped it, cradling his hands to his chest, and the object fell on its tip and started to spin, making screeching sounds. Drawing his wand from within his robes, he poked the spinning top-like device, and it spluttered, emitting little shooting stars from its base as it teetered and fell on its side.

"Serves you right," she said haughtily, raising her chin high, but, yet again, Edgar was not paying any attention to her.

"I have done it!" he exclaimed as he picked up the broken top and held it out for her to see. "I have finally created my masterpiece!"

She clucked her tongue, unimpressed, but her lack of enthusiasm barely dampened his spirits as he did a little dance around the small space singing "I have done it!" over and over again.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," she snapped, stomping her foot childishly. "If you are quite finished with your antics, would you kindly leave? I am at the end of my patience, here, and no longer wish to associate myself with you."

"I will leave," he promised as he drew closer to her. "But, first, allow me to tell you about my first successful invention!"

She pursed her lips but nodded nonetheless; listening to him excitedly explain something she could not really understand was far better than him leaving her alone.

"This," said he, holding up the rusted top, "from henceforth, shall be known as the Sneakoscope."

"The _what,_ now?" she asked as she returned to her paper weaves, listening with interest as he went on to explain what the peculiar device was meant to do.

(It was several years later when she found out that Edgar Stroulger's Sneakoscope had become something of a phenomenon in the toy industry, and had, indeed, revolutionised the wizarding world, but perhaps not in the way the creator had intended.)

* * *

 **Prompts :**

 _ **1\. The Biathlon Competition:**_

 **15 km Mass Start**

All athletes start at the same time, in 3 rows with each 10 athletes. Four shootings have to be completed (2 standing, 2 prone), thereby 20 targets need to be hit. 150 metres penalty round per missed target are to be skied.

1\. 1500 words minimum **(3 penalties: minimum 1,950)**

2\. 20 prompts

3\. 150 words extra per penalty

 **Prompts:**

fairy

(Choose one): The Irish National Quidditch Team

shooting star

mess

thunder

 **India (not used)**

tower

judge

 **tide (not used)**

duty

price

"I am weak. I feel how life and my courage are slowly flowing out of my body. I am loosing myself."

garden

waltz

reason

shape

insult

flowerpot

 **Chocolate Frog Card (not used)**

Carriage

* * *

 _ **2\. Embrace the Majors Competition**_

 **List 2: Humanities based majors' classes:** **Fine Arts:** painting, drawing, sculpting...for those artistically gifted :)

 ** _write about:_ a portrait in some way**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n: This was written for two competitions on HPFC: The Biathlon Competition and Embrace Your Majors Competition. Prompts are at the bottom.**

 **Finally some recognisable characters! I rather enjoyed writing this one. It's gonna get interesting from here on out.**

 **(Since the Author's note at the bottom has prompts- let me know what you thought of this chapter! Reviews are always loved and treasured. There's still two more chapters to come, so if you're interested, make sure to follow this story!**

 **Also, because so many of you have mentioned this: no, the portrait is _not_ situated in the Room of Requirement. Although premise may seem similar, the portrait is an alcove in the far back of the Rear Hall, which isn't used very often and is covered from wall-to-wall with bookshelves, behind one of which she's situated.)**

* * *

 _ **Circa 1899**_

She was awoken from her afternoon nap by a strange grating sound. Blinking the remnants of sleep away, she frowned as she saw someone tumble into the hidden alcove. The boy, who looked to be about fifteen years of age, took a moment to look around before his eyes fell upon her portrait. She awaited the reaction to come, but instead of the usual surprise or the like that she had been greeted by anyone who had accidentally managed to find her abode, the boy's shoulders slumped and he sighed long and deep, as though the realisation that he was not alone was greatly depressing.

 _What a rude child,_ she thought to herself, sniffing disdainfully. No one had ever disregarded her so, in all the years of her existence, and even a forgotten portrait had some pride left, even after the centuries of isolation that had been forced upon her.

The boy coughed as the dust fluttered around the small space and waved his wand to clear it, further ignoring her existence. _Very well, then,_ she thought. _If he shall not acknowledge my presence, then so be it. I shan't acknowledge him, either._

She shut her eyes and made herself comfortable beneath her tree, feigning sleep as she listened carefully to decipher the soft scraping sounds coming from the boy. Unable to contain her curiosity, she cracked upon an eye and peered at the brunet, watching his hunched form as his quill moved back and forth while he wrote in a small book. Several minutes passed, but the boy continued to ignore her in favour of whatever it was he was writing, and she was getting agitated at being disregarded by yet another student who had intruded her space without permission.

Deciding that she could not care less for a morose-looking fellow who did not even have the courtesy to greet her, she shut her eyes with more purpose this time, and fell asleep soon after.

When she awoke, it was to the sight of bright cerulean eyes watching her with interest. She made a startled sound as she sat up quickly, holding a hand out in an attempt to spare her dignity. "What in the world do you think you are doing?" she said in a shrill voice, startling the boy.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said he, moving back and holding his hands up. "I was only trying to decipher the inscription along the bottom of your painting is all. I apologise for disturbing your sleep."

She huffed, the heat crawling up her neck and settling in her cheeks as she patted her hair down and straightened out her dress. Glancing over his head, she noticed that it was nearing twilight, and she pursed her lips as she frowned at the boy before her. "What in heaven's name are you still doing here? It has been hours since you arrived."

"I like it here," he said softly, taking a step back. "It is quiet, and there isn't anybody constantly hovering over me to make sure I'm alright."

Her frown deepened at that. "What sort of illness ails you?" she asked.

He shook his head, a faraway look in his light eyes. "An incurable ailment of the mind and heart," he said in a despondent voice.

She eyed him curiously as she combed her fingers through her hair. "Have you been poisoned by love, perchance?" questioned she.

He snorted, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "How I wish," he replied in a way that made her feel as though he had been unjustly wronged.

"Then what is it that ails you, child?" she asked in a gentler voice, the hollow look in his eyes tugging at her long-forgotten maternal instincts.

He shook his head and dropped his gaze. His light eyes had turned a murkier blue, and a veil of sorrow seemed to cling to him. She could not help but feel pity for him. "Well," she said as she began braiding her hair. "I do not get visitors very often, so I suppose it should be alright if I were to allow you to stay for a little while longer."

His expression brightened at that, and the small smile that graced his features seemed genuine. "Thank you."

The boy returned every day, after that, small black book held tight in his hands, and he would spend hours in a corner of the alcove, scratching away, a deep frown etched into his forehead. He had introduced himself as Aberforth Dumbledore, and after seeing her eyes widen in recognition of the surname, he had admitted that he was, indeed, the younger brother of the famous Albus Dumbledore, previous Head Boy, the genius wizard whose intelligence was unparalleled by any his age, and excelled in just about everything. There was a bitterness to his confession that led her to assume that he was not all that fond of his older brother. Perhaps having to walk in the shadow of their genius brother was not something one would enjoy very much.

But even though she would engage him in conversation every once in a while, every time it seemed like she was getting closer to the reason behind his melancholic demeanour, or the reason for him spending every free hour hidden away from the rest of the world, he would shut down completely and resume his prolonged period of silence.

Somehow, she could not be angry with him. If anything, she pitied him and wished she could offer him some means of solace, but it was not until just before the end-of-year feast that he finally opened up to her.

"Do you think if I begged Headmaster Dippet he would allow me to spend the summer here?" he asked her as he continued to write in his book.

"I suppose not," she answered truthfully.

His shoulders drooped at that, and he looked up at her with woeful eyes. "I do not want to return to that empty house. There is nothing waiting for me except for more pain and agony."

The depth of sorrow in his eyes made her heart ache. A child as young as him should not have a reason to make such an expression. She hesitated for a moment before saying, "I would consider you lucky to be able to return home, unlike I, who is forced to remain here for all eternity."

"I would gladly exchange places with you," said he, his voice choked, and she inhaled deeply and swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat.

"What is it that pains you so, my love?" she asked, watching as he frowned at his book, as though expecting it to answer in his stead.

"My mother passed away earlier this year," he finally answered in a quavering voice choked with emotion. "It was a heavy blow on me and my siblings—yes, I had a younger sister as well."

Heart beginning to race, she asked, "Had?"

He bowed his head, dark curls covering his face, as he said in a deeply sorrowful voice, "She was ill, Ariana was. But my brother, the great Albus Dumbledore, could not care less for her. He would simply leave her in my care as he went gallivanting about with that—that _friend_ of his, hateful fellow that he was. I _told_ him that Grindelwald was trouble. I _warned_ him. But did he listen?" He threw his arms in the air, his face flushed from anger and his eyes ablaze. "No! Why would he listen to anything his foolish younger brother had to say? And then, one fine day, they had a disagreement. Grindelwald wanted to leave home and go away with Albus, but, for some reason, Albus refused." He paused, fists clenches, tears pooling in his eyes. "A duel broke out. I was there, too. The three of us were so busy screaming spells at one another that no one noticed that Ariana had appeared, distressed by the fight. In an attempt to stop it, she came in range of the barrage, and she—I tried to stop her," he sobbed, looking at her with pleading eyes. "I tried to push her away, but I was too late! It hit her straight in the chest, and she died in an instant. I watched as the light left her eyes as I held her in my arms."

He had risen to his feet, all but shouting, arms held out on either side as though he was desperate for someone to embrace him and reassure him that everything would be alright. How she wished that she could do so. "But, Albus was too busy battling Grindelwald to even look our way," he continued. "He could have saved her! He could have saved Ariana! But he didn't. He didn't." The hate shimmering in his eyes shocked her, and she was almost frightened for the person at whom his loathing was directed. "Albus Dumbledore, the genius wizard, so great a magician that he was said to be able to perform miracles, and yet he could not save his only sister. And yet, he left her to die, without the slightest sign of remorse. Can you even begin to understand the hatred I feel for him? Can you even begin to fathom it, Lady Ginevra? _Can you?"_

The raw fury and loathing that burned in his eyes seemed to be eating away at his soul, but no matter how she wished she could help, she had not the slightest idea as to what to say to placate him. Her lips were parted in an attempt to say something, but no words left her mouth. He seemed to be waiting for her reply, but she could not give him one. Just as he dropped his arms and inhaled deeply, there were muffled voices from the other side of the bookshelf. It seemed somebody had happened to hear Aberforth's rage and was trying to find the origin of it.

The boy eyed the barrier that was the bookshelf that separated him from his fate, a frightened look on his face, and as soon as the voices could no longer be heard, Ginevra said, "You must leave, child." He turned to her wide-eyed, already shaking his head, but she was firm. "You should not be here. The feast should already be underway. You will be in great trouble if someone finds you loitering around the hallways."

"But—"

"No buts," she said sternly, holding up a finger. "You must leave, and you must not return. Have I made myself clear?"

Betrayal flashed across his cyan eyes, and it pained her to have to force him to leave, but she told herself that it was for his own good. She convinced herself that what she was doing was the right decision and that it would help him in the long run. She reached behind her and rubbed her palm against the ground, the rustling sound making it seem like the people on the other side had returned, and the boy looked over his shoulder again. It only took him a moment to grab his things, shoot her one last glance, and wriggle out of the gap. She stared at the place he had disappeared for a long moment, feeling a yawning hole form in the pit of her stomach. She clutched her chest and sighed, praying that he have a better life than he had led so far.

(That was the last time she ever heard of Aberforth Dumbledore. It was as though he had vanished off the face of the earth; as though her time spent with him was all an illusion she had concocted in her head. Perhaps it was; she would never know. Either way, she would never forget him, as it was him that had moved her stone-cold heart to make way for the future students that ventured into her hidden abode.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1941**_

She paused with a blade of grass between her fingertips and cocked her head to the side, listening. She had thought she had heard a scratching sound, but when she did not hear it again, she decided that she had just imagined it and returned to her latest pastime: splitting the blades of grass that surrounded her and seeing how thin she could make them before they tore.

There was the scratching sound again, and she looked up with a frown. No one had entered the alcove, so she could not be sure as to where the sound was coming from. Suddenly, a thick forearm pushed itself through the gap and deposited something in the alcove. Alarmed, she stared wide-eyed as the arm shuffled about for a moment before disappearing with a groan.

Curious, she walked as close to the barrier of the portrait as she could and peered down at what had been placed beside the small mound of objects that had collected near the gap. All she could see was the top of what looked like a rather large, soft, white ball, and the longer she watched it, the more it seemed as though it was moving. Frowning, she wondered if it was some animal of sorts and had been abandoned in her alcove, hoping beyond hope that whoever had left it would come soon to retrieve it.

She continued to keep an eye on the ball-like object as she went about her daily routines, but although it would wobble about every once in a while, it showed no other signs of life. After four or five days—she kept track of the days by carving tally marks into the back of her Juniper tree. Every time she reached a triple digit number, she would peel the bark off and store it under the roots, adding the tally marks as the years went by—she heard the same scratching sound, followed by the appearance of the thick forearm.

She wanted to yell out to whomever it was to take back the ball, but she was rather intimidated by someone who was so large that only their forearm would fit through the gap in-between the alcove's edge and the bookshelf. As she watched, the person fumbled around till he found the ball, retracted his hand, and just as she was about to sigh in relief, replaced it back inside the alcove. It seemed that whoever it was had wrapped the round object in a familiar maroon and gold scarf, and although she still did not know what sort of animal was inside the object, every time it moved, she shuddered and moved as far back as possible.

Two weeks passed with no signs of the owner returning, and she was becoming more and more anxious as the days went by, because the creature inside the egg—she had deduced it was an egg after careful observation, when the scarf had fallen off from the creature's movements—was starting to become more active, as though ready to hatch. Something the size of a large coconut was not supposed to exist within the walls of Hogwarts, and most definitely not be smuggled in and hidden in _her_ alcove, of all places.

As it neared the month's end, the egg had started to split open, and long, spindly legs had started to poke its way out. As four of the legs had made their way outside, she decided that the creature must be a spider of some sort. Racking her brains to remember her long-forgotten knowledge regarding various creatures that she had read when she was still in the Hospital Wing from a book a neighbouring portrait had leant her, she reckoned that it was most likely an Acramantula hatchling.

Now that she had figured out its identity, it only further increased her anxiety, and the next time the arm appeared, she called out to it. "Hello, whoever you are!" The arm paused, and she continued hurriedly, "I am the Lady Ginevra de' Benci, and I demand that you immediately take away that hideous creature this instant!"

The arm retracted without the egg, and she was about to yell again when the bookshelf groaned and was pushed further down so the gap was larger. A boy's head appeared, dark shaggy hair covering his rugged face, beady brown eyes staring up at her anxiously.

"Please," gasped the boy. "Lemme keep Aragog 'ere. If they find him, they'll kill him!"

"That vile creature has no place in this school," she hissed, crossing her arms and looking fierce. "I do not know how you procured it, but I demand that you remove it from here this instant! I refuse to allow it to hatch and scuttle about in here!"

She shuddered at the very thought, and even the boy's pleas could not change her mind. "Please, he's only a baby. He means no harm!"

"It matter not to me whether that… that _monstrosity_ is a baby or not! Look at those disgusting legs floundering about! Remove it from here immediately!"

"I will," the boy said, "but 'tleast allow him to stay 'ere till I find a more suitable place for him."

She frowned. "Who are you?"

"Me name's Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid. I swear, just another day or two and he'll be out of your hair."

Shuddering at the very thought of a humongous spider in her hair, she waved him off. "No, no, absolutely not. Do what you will with it, but it take it out of here!"

There was a ripping sound, and the spider slid out of the egg and lay upside down on the ground, its long legs swinging about. "Take it away!" she shrieked, looking away, disgusted by the sight of it.

"Apologies," grunted the boy as he scooped up the creature, remnants of the egg and all, cooing to it as he carefully pulled his head out, followed by his arm and the Acromantula hatchling.

She rubbed her arms, scrunching up her nose in disgust, glad that the monstrosity was finally out of her alcove. She could not even begin to imagine what would have happened had it remained there for a day or two longer.

(About two months later, she heard rumours that Muggleborns had started to disappear, and several weeks after, she heard people gossiping about a certain boy, one Rubeus Hagrid, who had been expelled for letting lose a beast in the castle, which had apparently killed one of the students.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1969**_

"Merry Christmas, Lady Ginevra!"

She looked up, a smile instantly alighting her face as she saw the familiar blonde who had traipsed into the alcove. "Why, Narcissa!" she exclaimed, keeping away her handmade quill and paper as the bright-eyed girl skipped up to her. "What in the world are you doing here? Is the feast not underway at this very moment?"

The girl scoffed, flipping her luscious blonde locks over her shoulder. "I got sick and tired of watching Dumbledore bumble about in his ridiculous powdered wig, making a complete and utter fool of himself. Really," she huffed, "how in the world he became Headmaster is beyond me."

Although the mention of Dumbledore dampened her spirits in the slightest, she quickly distracted herself by mentioning the reason behind why Narcissa had chosen to remain in Hogwarts for Christmas that year. "You spend an awful lot of time in here for someone who is supposed to be keeping an eye on her sister and her supposedly illicit love affair."

The girl pursed her lips. "I _have_ been," said she. "But I rarely ever leave her side; it's getting to be rather tiresome, to be honest." She rummaged in her overcoat for a moment before pulling out a small envelope. "Bella even sent me a letter reminding me that it was up to me to make sure Anna wasn't caught up in something nasty. 'I'm counting on you to look out for our dear Annie,' she says. 'Oh, and happy Christmas, Cissy!' Balderdash."

Narcissa huffed, but Ginevra could tell that the girl was smug about the fact that she, being the youngest of the three Black sisters at fourteen years of age, had been tasked with such an important responsibility. "Bella and Anna never ever let me join in on _anything,"_ the girl had often complained to Ginevra ever since she had found the alcove earlier that year. But, she knew how proud Narcissa was to be a Black and to continue its pureblood legacy—which she did with such grace and elegance for someone her age that Ginevra could not help but be proud of her, as a mother would of her own child.

"Bellatrix might be wrong after all," said Ginevra as she fluffed her skirts. "Andromeda might just have remained back here to take care of her Prefect work, as she said she had."

"Maybe," Narcissa replied, pouting.

"Well, what about a certain _other_ person who stayed back this year?" Ginevra smiled smugly as the blonde's cheeks turned a rosy pink.

"About that," said Narcissa, "listen to this, milady! Malfoy actually told me that he would be waiting under the mistletoe back in the common room for me! The gall, I tell you!"

Ginevra chortled at that, seeing her obvious delight in the girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. "I say, what a daring young man he is, to court the one and only Narcissa Black in such a direct manner."

"It really isn't a laughing matter," grumbled the blonde. "Anyway, I have decided that I shan't meet with him. I shall spend the night here, if need be!"

"You shall do no such thing," Ginevra admonished, raising a finger. "Really, now, that is not ladylike in the least."

"I'm barely even a proper lady," Narcissa said in reply. "What am I to do if he attempts to—to—" she broke off, her cheeks turning a brilliant shade of red, and Ginevra threw her head back and laughed at the girl's display of innocence.

"My, who would have thought," she chuckled, wiping a tear from her eye, "that the smug, silent Narcissa would be so intimidated at being courted."

"Is that how you think of me?" the girl quipped, crossing her arms. "After how much time I spend chattering away with you?"

"But am I not the only one you _chatter away_ with?" questioned Ginevra. "Other than your sisters, of course."

The blonde stuck her nose in the air. "I assure you, I have many friends."

"Oh?" Ginevra responded with a smile.

"But they are much too plain for someone of my stature," finished Narcissa, looking important. "All the boys and girls in my year, they only want to get in my good graces so that they can claim to be my friends. Such people are barely worth my time or energy."

Although she made a show of being strong and determined, Ginevra knew that a girl her age would be rather lonely if she had no one to open her heart to. Having heard stories of the subject of her portrait having spend many a day alone, with nobody to speak with, being the daughter of the aristocrat that she was, Ginevra could sympathise with Narcissa.

"Perhaps, then, it is time for you to find company in someone who is from, say, a different year?"

Narcissa frowned at that. "Are you suggesting I go meet with Malfoy and allow him to cosy up to me?"

"I suggest you wear something more appropriate, if that is what you plan on doing," Ginevra replied, giving the girl a once over.

Narcissa's cheeks coloured as she rose to her feet, chin in the air, attempting to look down at a portrait that was above her eye level. "You're always so quick to send me off," said she. "Even after I went out of my way to come visit you on Christmas."

Ginevra smiled, her affection for the girl growing. "Although that makes me very happy, I would rather you spend Christmas with your sister and the others than with a dusty old portrait." When the girl's shoulders drooped sadly, Ginevra said, "Besides, it is not very ladylike to brush aside an honest attempt by a rather intelligent and good-looking lad, if I go by your descriptions of him, to pursue you."

Narcissa stuck her lower lip out, pouting childishly, but Ginevra only found it endearing. "Now, off you go." When the girl hesitated, Ginevra waved her hand and said, "I shall be awaiting a full report on your escapades tomorrow."

The blonde seemed to brighten at that, and with a twirl of her dress, she skipped to the gap, offered Ginevra a brilliant smile, and with a, "Happy Christmas again, milady!" she was gone.

Ginevra chuckled to herself as she turned back to her quill and paper. As she wrote down the day's conversation in her self-made diary, she could not help but feel a sense of belonging blossom within her—an emotion she had not expected to feel after so many centuries of being all alone in her hidden alcove, forgotten by the rest of the world.

(There were always rumours swirling around the castle about the Black sisters in the years to come. Some said that Bellatrix Black had married a Lestrange and had become a supporter of some wizard who considered himself a Dark Lord; some others said that Andromeda Black had fallen from grace when she had eloped with a Muggleborn, disgracing her family and its name; but it was the rumours of Narcissa Black having finally married one Lucius Malfoy, and having had a son with him, that made Ginevra the happiest. Of all the students who had happened to stumble into her abode over the years, it was Narcissa whom Ginevra was the proudest of.)

* * *

 **The Biathlon Competition Prompts:**

 **10 km**

The athletes start in intervals of 30 seconds. Two shootings have to be completed (1 prone, 1 standing) and 10 targets to be hit. The athletes have to ski a penalty round the length of 150 metres per missed targets.

1\. 1000 words minimum

2\. 10 prompts

3\. 150 words extra per penalty

 **(4 penalties: word minimum: 1,600)**

 **Prompts:**

poison

magician

wig

 **(Choose one): Fred Weasley; Gellert Grindelwald; Dobby; Minerva McGonagall; Ron Weasley (not used)**

tumble

pursue

 **gallery (not used)**

 **"This was way too easy." / "I told you that this was a bad idea rightaway." (not used)**

intelligence

 **attic (not used)**

* * *

 **Embrace Your Majors Competition Prompts:**

List 1: - **Statics:** the physics of things that don't move - _write about_ : a character who is making a difficult decision


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n: This was originally written for the Biathlon Competition. I ended up missing the deadline, but since I had already used most of the prompts, I just decided to finish it. This was also written for the Disney Lyric Prompts Competition. Prompts are at the bottom.**

* * *

 _ **Circa 1976**_

"What is this—I think there's a—"

She peeked out from behind her Juniper tree at the sound of a female voice, awaiting her latest visitor with anticipation. A ginger-haired girl sidled into the alcove, wide, emerald eyes looking around with interest from the very moment she stepped in through the gap.

"What is this place?" she whispered, the awe clear in her voice as she turned around in a slow circle, taking in the various piles of miscellaneous objects scattered about and the haphazard stacks of books pushed to one corner—Ginevra made it a habit to get each of her unannounced visitors to do a bit of cleaning since she could not do it herself.

The girl examined a candelabra that lay by her feet, beside a bag of shattered marbles, prodding the dusty, melted candle with her shoe. She made a face as she picked up one of the four rag dolls lying beside it, which were perhaps modelled after the four founders, going by the emblems on them, and held it out by the tips of her fingers.

The girl finally turned and looked up, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, mouth hanging open, hands gripping the gold and crimson scarf draped around her neck tightly. "This must be it…" she murmured, as though she had been looking for the alcove all along.

Ginevra eyed her with curiosity. This had to be the first time that a student who had found her abode seemed like they had _wanted_ to find it. Usually they just chanced upon it for various reasons; because they were curious for adventure, or they were exploring the mysteries of the castle, or even, in one instance, by pure accident while sleepwalking. Although the others had wanted a secret place that was hidden away from prying eyes, none of them had seemed like they had been looking specifically for the alcove—unlike the girl before her, who had finally spotted Ginevra and was now watching her with wide, shining eyes.

"Hullo," she said, smiling sweetly. "What an odd place for such a beautiful portrait."

Ginevra stepped out from behind the tree and decided almost immediately that she liked this girl. It was not often that a compliment was the very first thing someone said upon catching sight of her. "What is your name, child?"

"Lily Evans, Ma'am. And you are?" She even did a little curtsy. _What a good girl._

"I am the Lady Ginevra de' Benci of Florentia."

The girl's eyes widened as though in recognition of her name. "I've heard of you," said she. "Weren't you one of the very first paintings to adorn the walls of Hogwarts?"

"You seem to be rather well informed," Ginevra commented as she came to sit by the barrier of her portrait.

"I've read _Hogwarts, A History_ more times than I can remember," the girl, Lily, replied with a smile.

Ginevra eyed the traditional colours of Gryffindor that adorned the girl's scarf. "It is odd that someone as seemingly bright and capable as you was Sorted into the House of the raucous and fool-hardy."

Lily's eyebrows shot up at that and she laughed. "Well, I suppose I wasn't good enough for Ravenclaw, then."

Ginevra sniffed. "I highly doubt that. That ratty old hat must be losing its touch. As one whose subject belonged to the House of the wise and intellectual, I would daresay you seem rather suited to be in Ravenclaw."

The girl's smile widened and she stepped closer. "That's interesting," she said as she tucked a strand of her fiery hair behind an ear. "Is this the rumoured place where all the treasures of the magical world of literature are hidden?"

Ginevra raised her eyebrows and chuckled. "There was such a rumour going around?" Catching sight of the fire blazing in Lily's eyes, she said, "I cannot say for certain that it is. As you can see, there are more than enough objects that have been abandoned here for centuries. Perhaps you may find what you seek if you were to look."

Lily eyed said objects, the curiosity burning in her jade eyes and her need to gain more knowledge almost palpable. Deciding that she would help this child since she had taken a liking to her, she said, "Tell me, what is it that you wish to find?"

The redhead seemed to hesitate briefly as she considered answering the question. After a moment's deliberation, she said, "Have you any knowledge about werewolves?"

Ginevra frowned. "Werewolves? Why in the world would I know anything about those hideous creatures?"

Lily winced, a saddened look crossing her deep, green eyes as she replied, "I think—I think—you can't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you." When Ginevra scoffed at that, the girl only pursed her lips and continued to eye her with a beseeching expression.

"Whom shall I tell, when I am stuck in here?" She swept her arms in a wide arc, motioning to the alcove before her, and that seemed to placate the girl.

"Well, this is mostly conjecture on my part, but I think—I think someone I am very close to might be one."

"A werewolf?"

Lily nodded, and Ginevra reared back, brows creased in a worried frown. "Child, if this is true, you must tell the headmaster at once!"

She shook her head, a panicked expression adorning her gentle features. "I might just be making hasty conclusions at this point, but I have a feeling Professor Dumbledore already knows."

"Preposterous," Ginevra huffed, folding her arms and raising her chin. "How dare you make such blind accusations."

"I wish they were just blind accusations, I really do," Lily muttered, staring at the ground with a frown. "But because I had to make sure, I approached him directly…"

She trailed off, her frown deepening, and Ginevra reckoned that the conversation had not gone as she had intended it to. Albus Dumbledore was well known for never giving a to-the-point answer to anything and choosing to leave the other party guessing.

Taking a deep breath, she decided that helping this girl resolve a seemingly deluded mystery might just become her new way of whiling away the time. "What evidence have you found for you to reach such a conclusion?" she asked, watching as Lily raised her eyes full of determination and fixed them on Ginevra.

"Well, to start with, I spend a lot of time with him. We're both Prefects and have similar tastes—besides, his best friend is rather smitten with me, so he acts as a sort of messenger between us—" she broke off, waving one hand as she placed the other one to her temples, her agitation evident.

"This boy, what is his name?"

When Lily looked up, amidst the myriad of emotions that swum in her emerald eyes, Ginevra was able to identify the most prominent ones: sorrow, helplessness, and heartache, possibly born from unrequited affection.

"Remus," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Remus Lupin."

(It was not much later that the girl had raced back to inform Ginevra that her suspicions had been confirmed; that there was, indeed, a student within Hogwarts who was a werewolf. Although Ginevra had tried to convince her to do something about it, the redhead had firmly refused, saying that he was barely any threat to anyone. But, a few years after the girl had left Hogwarts, and Ginevra had sighed with relief that the monster within the castle was gone, terrible news reached her of one Lily Potter who had been murdered in cold blood by a raging lunatic of a Dark Lord. Thus, the peace and monotony of her days as a forgotten portrait, isolated from the rest of the world, were shattered, leaving her to deal with a future that promised its fair share of disquiet and turmoil.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1980**_

"—just like everything else. Can't say for sure, but it was rather a surprise. Of course, Grandmother would be pleased. Ah, maybe it is her trying to warn me from the grave of great dangers to come—oh my, hello."

She eyed the outlandishly dressed witch that had tumbled into the alcove, a bottle of what looked like old sherry dangling from her fingertips. The woman's appearance was that of someone who was barely able to scrape by, who had sewn together an outfit from ratty old drapes and sheets. The sheer number of beads around her neck plus the freakishly large spectacles that magnified her bug-like eyes disgruntled Ginevra, to say the least.

The witch staggered to the side and hiccoughed, grinning lopsidedly as she shuffled closer to Ginevra's portrait, an idiotic expression on her flushed face. "Why, G'morning," she slurred, waving her free arm wildly and making the bangles and bracelets on her thin wrist jangle together. "What're you doing cooped up in this dusty ol' hovel on such a fine mornin'?"

Pursing her lips, she crossed her arms and looked away defiantly. She was not about to engage in a pointless conversation with a disgraceful woman such as the one barely managing stay upright before her, who was quite obviously intoxicated in the middle of the day, and had the appearance of a battered old nomad who would rather lay wasted beside the road than do anything of consequence.

And, like any other intoxicated fool, the woman seemed undeterred by the fact that she was being blatantly ignored and went about introducing herself. "Sybill Patricia Trelawney at your service, milady. That's _Professor_ Sybill Patricia Trelawney to you—and everybody else, of course. Newly appointed, too. Marvellous, no?"

Ginevra scowled down at the woman, unimpressed, but she only waved her arms about, splashing the drink onto her clothes and getting them soaked, and continued speaking. "Nice, homely place you have here. Perhaps you and I can go out to tea some time? Is the grass in your portrait soft? Perhaps a picnic would suffice. We can get one of those netted baskets and everything."

"I implore you to leave," Ginevra said in a clipped voice when the witch walked up to the portrait and pressed her nose to it.

"Oh _no,_ I can't leave. Oh no, no, no." Sybill tutted and wagged a finger, as though reprimanding Ginevra for suggesting something so utterly foolish. Then she raised the bottle in her hand, and with a crooked smile, asked, "Sherry?"

Ginevra sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat as she realised she would not be able to return to the peace and solitude of her monotonous existence at that moment. "No, thank you," she snapped, turning away from the other woman. If Sybill would not leave, then Ginevra would not acknowledge her presence.

Being ignored seemed to be something the ratty witch was used to, because she simply went about her business in her drunkenness, muttering about her grandmother and her job and how cold the other professors were—"They refuse to accept that divination is a proper subject, the boors!"—and whatnot, as Ginevra kept one eye on her all the while to make sure she did not break something, especially her bones.

After a time, Sybill settled down in a dusty corner, polished off the rest of the sherry, and stuffed the bottle under her robes. She sat staring into space with her mouth hanging open, her big, round, glassy eyes disconcerting to look at. She then began to mutter about something or the other, her expressions changing every now and again as her voice rose in anger or dropped in despair.

All in all, she was a rather amusing specimen, and Ginevra felt as though she was watching some sort of performance as she continued to observe the witch's many shenanigans. Once she grew bored, she turned back to her hand-crafter journal and began to carefully pen down her day's activities—or lack thereof—and was startled when an animal-like wail emanated from the farthest corner of the small alcove. She peered at Sybill curiously, wondering what she was up to now, but the woman was still talking to herself, her voice loud enough for Ginevra to catch the words.

"—out of pity, I daresay. Doesn't think I have a shred of talent, does he? Insult to my grandmother! Insult to my ancestors! Real shame, too. But if only I could remember… remember… remember… what's that, now? Ah, right, remember… but I simply don't understand. I'm quite sure he refused, but what made him change his mind? Tad soft in the head, perhaps… my missing memory isn't a problem, is it? Oh, no, of course it isn't. Silly me. Where is this place anyway? Don't I have an afternoon class?" She struggled to rise to her feet, teetering to the side and almost collapsing onto the towering pile of books beside her as she steadied herself and declared, "I know that this may seem like a game to you, but it is damn serious to me!"

 _What is?_ Ginevra wanted to ask, but she dared not, lest the witch lose her focus in trying to coordinate her limbs and go sprawling down onto the dusty cobble-stoned floor. She would break more than a tooth or two, if that were to happen. Ginevra watched as Sybill scrambled about, arms held out in front of her, as though her vision had failed her, odd little sounds escaping her chapped lips. She seemed as though she was doing some ritual that Ginevra had never witnessed before. Sybill began to move her hands in slow circles and curving patterns, her glassy eyes staring off into space, as though she was in a trance—or trying to be, at least.

"I'm doing it right!" she suddenly yelled, throwing her hands up in the air. "Don't you dare tell me you hate something you don't understand! Unfounded hate, I tell you, that's what it is!"

She twirled about, arms raised over her head, screaming "Hate, hate, hate!" and then she jerked to a stop, doubled over, and vomited all over the floor.

Ginevra groaned and took her head in her hands. _Who is going to clean that mess, now?_

"Sorry," Sybill said, looking squeamish. "I'll just—" she waved her wand and Scoured the floor. Ginevra was just glad that she could not smell anything beyond the confines of her painting, because she doubted that the alcove smelled very pleasant just then.

"Time for some training," the witch muttered as she stumbled to the gap. And with a final, "Prophecies, shmofecies. No one believes them anyway," she exited the alcove, leaving Ginevra to exhale a sigh of relief and return to writing in her book.

(She never heard of Sybill Trelawney again for about a decade and a half later, when there were rumours of her being forced to abdicate her position as Professor of Divination because she possessed absolutely no remarkable skills or talent. What happened after that, or whether it was even true or false, Ginevra never found out.)

* * *

 _ **Circa 1992**_

She stirred from slumber as soft whimpers and sobs reached her ear. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she peered around her tree and squinted into the darkness. Luckily for her, the moon was shining bright that night, so it did not take very long for her to spot the rather small bundle huddled in the corner, the girl's bright red mane of hair bobbing up and down as she cried into her knees.

Crawling over to the boundary of her painting, she peered down at the young girl. She seemed to be a first year, a rather small and frail-looking one at that, and it reminded Ginevra of a certain other sleepwalking eleven-year-old who had happened to find her alcove in the middle of the night.

After a time, the girl simmered down, and Ginevra reckoned that she must have fallen asleep, her head resting against the bookshelf and her pale face looking ghostly in the moonlight. She was clutching something tight against her chest, something that looked like a black book, but it was too dark to be sure. Ginevra watched her sleep for a moment longer till a yawn escaped her lips and she crawled back to her tree. Hopefully when she awoke in a few hours, the child would be gone.

Unfortunately for her, none of her wishes ever came true, so when she came around her Juniper tree in the morning, the girl was there, except now she was dressed in her uniform, so perhaps she had left and returned. She was standing at one end of the alcove and staring at the other end of it. Curious, Ginevra tried to find what it was the girl was looking at, but there was nothing there.

"Are you alright, child?" she finally asked the redhead, who, to Ginevra's delight, shrieked and jumped back, her brown eyes wide with fear and her lower lip trembling. It had been a while since someone had reacted in that way after catching sight of her.

"Who—what—how—" she stammered, looking from side to side as though she expected someone or something to jump out at her.

"Worry not, it is only I who resides in this place." When the child only turned to eye her fearfully as she pressed back against the bookshelf, Ginevra said, "You were here last night, were you not?"

The girl nodded. Ginevra hummed in thought. "Did you perchance forget something here while in your woe begotten state?"

The child shook her head and dropped her gaze to the floor. Ginevra tutted. "Can you speak?"

The redhead nodded, realised her mistake, and then said, "Sorry," in a tiny, squeaky voice.

Biting back a sigh, Ginevra asked, "What is your name?"

The girl fidgeted, playing with her hands, looking unsure, and Ginevra could not help but roll her eyes. "Alright, then. I am known as the Lady Ginevra de' Benci of Florentia. What are you called?"

For some reason, hearing Ginevra's name seemed to have sparked the life in the little red-haired girl, because she looked up, eyes wide with curiosity, and said, "Ginevra?"

"That is correct."

"That's my name, too."

Ginevra frowned. "Pardon me?"

A small smile graced the young girl's pale features. "I'm Ginny. Ginny Weasley."

Raising her eyebrows, Ginevra nodded once in acknowledgement. "Well, hello, Ginny Weasley."

"Hello."

They continued to stare at each other for several moments longer, and Ginevra could not help but feel a tad disappointed that even though she had finally found her namesake after so many centuries of being isolated and forgotten by the rest of the world, the girl seemed far too timid and jittery for her liking.

"Um," the child said, finally having found the nerve to walk closer to Ginevra. "Last night, you said you saw me?"

She nodded once. The girl bowed her head and fiddled with her fingers. "Um, did you, maybe, also happen to see a black diary?"

Ginevra pursed her lips in thought. "I may or may not have. Why? I thought you said you did not forget anything."

"Oh, I didn't forget it." The girl seemed to grow even paler, if that was possible. "I left it here."

Ginevra nodded. "Of course you did."

"But," the child continued, her gaze returning to the spot she was staring at earlier. "It's not here anymore."

"Well, perhaps you took it back with you."

Ginevra II—she liked the sound of that—shook her head. "No. I'm quite sure I left it here. I checked multiple times."

"Then it has to still be here," she replied. "I'm afraid nothing ever leaves this alcove unless manually extracted. You can take my word for it." Her bitterness for having been abandoned for centuries in that dusty old hovel was something she would never stop resenting, even if ever she was returned to her original location.

"I believe you," the girl whispered, tears now streaming down her cheeks.

Alarmed, Ginevra said, "I'm sure you will find your diary, child. There isn't any need to cry over it."

"Oh, I'm quite sure I'll find it as well," the redhead sobbed, rubbing her eyes with her hands. "But I don't _want_ to find it! I simply can't get rid of it! I've tried _everything!"_

Ginevra frowned. It had to be the first time she had encountered a situation of this sort. _What an odd predicament to be in,_ she thought before asking, "Tell me, child, is this diary cursed?"

The girl shrugged and then nodded, and Ginevra heaved a sigh. "How did you come to possess it?"

"—t'was with my school books," she hiccoughed as she looked up at Ginevra with a pitiful expression, eyes red from crying.

"Have you written in it?"

When the redhead nodded, she felt her heart sink. "Please tell me you did not pour all your heart's woes and worries into it."

The girl hung her head in dismay, and Ginevra pinched the bridge of her nose. "Have you not been taught to never trust anything that isn't supposed to speak when it talks back to you? What sort of witch _are_ you?"

Ginny began to cry again, and Ginevra felt her irritation slowly ebb away and turn into pity. "Really," she finally said, deciding that she could at least try to help this girl. At least because they shared the same name, if not for anything else. "It's always you Gryffindors who get yourself into endless trouble. Why can't you simply… not?"

"I didn't know," the girl wailed, and Ginevra winced from the shrillness of her voice.

"If you want my help, then I demand that you stop your incessant bawling at once," she chastised, watching with arms crossed as the girl sniffled and rubbed the tears from her cheeks.

"Can you really help me?" Ginny asked in a small voice, to which Ginevra shrugged a shoulder.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. Have you told anyone else of this diary?"

The child shook her head, and Ginevra sighed. "Right. Now, I presume that this is not the first time you have tried to get rid of that book?" The girl nodded. "What else did you do?"

"I—I accidentally dropped it from the Astronomy Tower the first time, but then when I went back to my dorm room, it was by my bedside table. Then I threw it into the fire, and it was sitting in my suitcase when I opened it to look for something later that evening," she answered, counting off on her fingers. "A—And then I found this place by accident last night and thought that maybe if I left it here with all this other stuff, it would work, but—" she broke off with a sob, and Ginevra sighed.

"Why don't you just tell a professor about this?" she asked. "They would know how to help you."

"I—I can't," Ginny whispered, looking stricken.

"Why not?"

"I think—I think I've done some terrible things."

Ginevra frowned. "How do you mean?"

The child looked up to fix fearful eyes on her. She shook her head slowly and whispered, "I don't know."

A shiver ran down Ginevra's spine, and she had half a mind to tell the girl to get away from her and never return, but she felt compelled to help this child because she felt as though they were connected, even if it was just by name, and even if that was just her wishful thinking, it still felt good to feel like she belonged after being alone for so many, many years.

"Elaborate," she finally instructed, waving her hand for Ginny to come closer.

The girl then narrated the entire tale of how the diary came into her possession before the school year began, and how she had been thrilled to find that she finally had someone to confide all of her deepest darkest secrets to. Being the youngest and only girl of her seven siblings, she had always felt lonely because she hadn't any female friends to confide in, and the diary came to her when she most needed it. But of late, she claimed to be feeling ill a lot, and there seemed to be lapses in her memory. She could not remember where she had been or what she had been doing on certain nights, and then something terrible would happen, like cats getting petrified or her waking up with rooster feathers on her night robes. After she woke up unable to remember where she had been the night a classmate of hers had disappeared, she realised that all these things had started only after she had found the diary, leading to her multiple attempts at trying to rid herself of it.

"I came straight here after breakfast to see if the diary was still here," she said as she wrung her hands, "but since it's not, I'm guessing it's back in my room somewhere. Oh," she moaned, "what do I do?"

Ginevra had not expected her situation to be as grave as it was, and now she understood why the girl refused to go to a teacher about it. If she were to tell them that she conveniently had no recollection of where she was or what she had been doing on the nights of these tragedies, then she would most definitely be the main suspect. The worst case scenario would be that she would be expelled, and in all her years, Ginevra had never heard of a first year student being expelled a mere few months after having entered Hogwarts.

"Alright," she conceded. "I will help you, but on one condition."

The girl looked up at her with beseeching eyes, and Ginevra sighed. "I will tell you of a place where you can get rid of the diary, but only if you give me your word that you will go to a teacher soon after."

"But why?" the redhead questioned. "If I no longer have the diary, I don't need to tell anybody about it, do I?"

"Child, cursed objects are not as simple to deal with as that. Dark Magic is very dangerous, and you have most definitely been exposed to it for a prolonged period of time. It could take a severe toll on you if countermeasures are not taken. So, do I have your word?"

Ginny looked unsure, but Ginevra knew that her need to rid herself of the vile object overpowered her need to stay away from trouble. And as she had anticipated, the girl nodded. "I promise."

Nodding, Ginevra decided that although she was not convinced, she would just have to believe that the child would stay true to her word. "I have heard rumours of the girls' lavatory on the first floor having been abandoned because it has been claimed as the territory of a certain ghost."

Ginny's eyes went round as saucers, and Ginevra waved her hand. "I doubt she can harm you. Anyway, nobody uses that lavatory, so I would say that it is a reasonable place to dispose of the diary, would you not agree? Of course, it might not work, but I reckon it is worth a try, since you're so desperate."

"The first floor girls' lavatory?" the redhead asked.

"Yes."

"Thank you," Ginny breathed, looking immensely relieved. "Thank you so much!"

She spun around and dashed to the gap, and just as she began to sidle out, Ginevra called, "Don't forget your promise, child!" but she was long gone.

Ginevra placed her palms against her cheeks and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. Unfortunately for her, she did not have a diary to spill all her woes to and have it console her.

(As it turned out, without Ginevra's knowledge, her act of kindness had facilitated the shifting of the gears, leading to the start of a terribly great saga, one we are all too familiar with.)

* * *

 **A/n: Yes, I hinted at Rily here because why not? And I've always wanted to write drunk!Trelawney, so that worked out to my advantage. And, if you're wondering, yes, the reason I chose Ginevra's portrait was because of Ginny. That was my reason lol.**

 **One more chapter to go!**

* * *

 **The Disney Lyric Prompts Competition:**

 **#5: "If she doesn't scare you, no evil thing will."**

 **The Biathlon Competition Prompts:**

20 km Individual

The athletes start in intervals of 30 seconds. Four shootings have to be completed (2 in a prone position, 2 standing), thereby 20 targets are to be hit. 1 minute penalty time for every target missed is added to their race time.

2000 words minimum

20 prompts

100 words extra for penalty. **6 penalties: 2,600 minimum**

 **Prompts:**

Marvelous

"I know that this may seem like a game to you, but it is damn serious to me!"

Tree

soaked

net

idiot

 **egg (not used)**

 **sedative (not used)**

ceiling

marble

morning

 **(Choose one): Harry/Draco; Angelina/Oliver; Luna/Neville; Hermione/Blaise; Ariana/Gellert (not used)**

 **vanilla (not used)**

crimson

candle

dolls

 **I'm the jury, I'm the judge and I committed all the crimes. (Delain - Not Enough) (not used)**

 **mask ball (not used)**

hate

training


End file.
